Cemeteries, stories and memory

Growing up, I spent a good deal of time visiting cemeteries and graveyards, both those established sites with their neat rows of markers and stones, and the wild, neglected and mostly forgotten spots scattered across my family farm.  I never found them spooky or macabre – they were just another element of the landscape. (And it is interesting how many central Kentucky towns have cemeteries perched high on hills overlooking the downtown. The dead truly have the best views in town.) 

High on a hill above the town-

 A handful of tombstones, including a few around which a tree had grown, were near one of our barns, in a small copse of trees. They are now all gone, knocked over by cattle and farming activity – vanished much like the family that once carved out a living on that land. When I was very young,  I was fascinated by the stones, three of which belonged to children, who died around the Civil War. One of the girls was named “Sarilda Jane” which I found particularly evocative, given my own confusing double name. 

A child's grave

We go the cemeteries twice a year – at Christmas, to place wreaths on the graves, and again during the Memorial Day weekend.  The cemeteries come alive during the latter occasion – with cars backed up, folks visiting, and a cornucopia of flowers, flags and poppies decorating the markers. “Decoration Day” of course, was the original name of Memorial Day, observed in the southern states to honor the graves of soldiers. For a long time, I didn’t really make the connection between veterans and our practice of cemetery visiting, because our tradition was to remember everyone – and it was a time of stories and remembrances. I treasured my trips to Macapelah and the cemetery in Owingsville with my father, as I hung on every anecdote or tale he would offer about my great-grandparents and my great-great-grandparents and their kith and kin. We’re a family of stories, and sometimes I catch myself telling someone about “Nelson” or “Jimmy” as if they were a contemporary, instead of my great-great-great grandfathers. 

The cemeteries in Mercer County, my mother’s “country,” offered up their own passionate, funny, and moving vignettes. Lucy Renfrew, who borrowed a horse and rode after the Confederate soldiers to reclaim her own stolen horse…(all the way to Mt. Sterling, we think) -- and she got that horse back. My “Low-Dutch” ancestors, buried at Old Mud Meeting House, and the tiny stone lambs and carved lilies gracing the stones of babies and children, including the two children my great-grandmother buried, who died of milk fever. (When I was young and heard that sad story, I used to worry that something would happen to me if drank too much milk.) Sometimes even accessing the rural cemeteries proved challenging – fording creeks, pulling back vines and getting lost all added to the sense that I was connecting with people I never knew. 

When I read about Blood Swept Lands and Seas of Red, an installation commemorating World War I at the Tower of London, my mind flashed between the beauty of the exhibit and what I know of the horrors of the Great War. During the WWI, the Tower’s moat was used to swear in over 1,600 men who had enlisted by the end of August 1914 at the recruitment station in the City. They formed the 10th Battalion of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers – “the so called ‘stock brokers battalion’ who fought for the duration of the war.”Ceramic artist Paul Cummins and stage designer Tom Piper have collaborated on an exhibit that will entail the installation of over 800,000 ceramic poppies in the dry moat around the Tower. The poppies are being hand-made by 50 potters in Cummins' studio, and will be placed in the moat in July. Each poppy represents the 888, 246 British and Colonial soldiers killed during the war.

One of the ceramic poppies that will be placed in the Tower of London moat. Image from http://www.telegraph.co.uk/history/world-war-one/10814268/Tower-of-London-moat-to-become-sea-of-poppies-to-mark-WW1-centenary.html

Red poppies are the emblem of Remembrance Day (known here in the states as Veterans Day). Popularized by Lt. Col. John McCrae’s poem, In Flanders Field, the poppy has become the symbol for those killed in war.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
      Between the crosses, row on row,
   That mark our place; and in the sky
   The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
   Loved and were loved, and now we lie
         In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
   The torch; be yours to hold it high.
   If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
         In Flanders fields.

The terror of modern warfare, epitomized by the thousands of dead lying in field in Flanders, where poppies later bloomed, was captured by many writers turned soldiers. So, so many died and never came home – a whole generation of young men disappeared. I still remember sitting secure and privileged in a college classroom, the warm afternoon sun seeping into the room, and reading a poem (Anthem for a Doomed Youth) by Wilfred Own, and turning cold.  

I hope that I would be affected by the violence and slaughter of World War I even if I didn’t have a personal connection to it. But I do. My paternal grandfather, whom I never knew, fought in France during WWI. He died before I was born, and he, unlike my grandmother, was apparently not a passer-down of family lore. He was born in 1895, in Bath County, Kentucky, and grew up in town, not on the farm that his mother owned just outside of town. His father owned a store, and he would later become a banker. Tall and handsome, according to photographs, with a penchant for fishing and taking photographs of lily pads, he remains  a mystery to me.

 

My grandfather's draft card

My father has very little to contribute about my grandfather’s experience in WWI – he didn’t like to talk about it. He was in the field artillery, and they hauled the large French guns with horses - afterwards, he hated the smell of tack and horses. He was also determined that his son would avoid being an enlisted man, and so years after WWI, my father went through ROTC at the University of Kentucky and was a lieutenant in the army. 

I never expected to discover anything new about him. His contemporaries are long gone, and my grandmother died when I was only 13. But recently on a trip home, as I rifled through old photograph albums,  a very small two inch by four inch ledger book fell out of an album. 

It belonged to my grandfather.  I can't really describe how I felt when I realized what the small ledger contained, and to who it had belonged. I hugged the knowledge to myself, feeling like I had received an incredible and unexpected gift. Lined pages, filled with a neat and quite lovely script, recount his journey to France in the summer of 1918. He left Camp Zachary Taylor on May 30, 1918. On Monday, June 10, 1918, he left Camp Mills on Long Island, NY,  headed for Philadelphia. 

“Left Camps Mills, LI, NY, about 4 o’clock on the Pennsylvania Line. Came through NY City, Trenton NJ, arrived at Philadelphia, PA about 9:30 am. Were given coffee, rolls and cigarettes by the Red Cross and boarded the English ship ? [Can’t decipher name]  about 10:30.

(question marks are mine – occasionally there is a word I can’t quite decipher)

Thursday June 13, 1918

Still lying in New York harbor waiting for our convoy. Weather pretty hot rather windy . Gets rather tiresome just staying on the boat, but we have two band concerts a day which helps relieve the monotony. Expect to leave tonight. The skyscrapers of NY City in plain view – 

Friday, June 14

Have been traveling all day, nothing exciting has happened other than the appearance of several whales, on the starboard side. Except for being a little dizzy am standing the trip fine so far.

Saturday, June 15

Nothing unusual only still sailing. Was put on guard for a 24-hour shift. Nothing unusual happened. Saw the moon go down at one o’clock an, certainly was beautiful. 

Sunday, June 16

Arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia about twelve o’clock today. Anchored in the harbor which looks to be right in the town. Beautiful scenery but from here can’t tell much about the town. Several more ships anchored in the harbor among them two other transports and two gunboats. 

Monday, June 17

Left Halifax about 2 o’clock, accompanied by eleven big boats and a gun boat and few submarine chasers. Weather cold. Food some better. 

My grandfather

Tuesday, June 18

Very foggy this morning and very disagreeable. Have no idea how far out we are but we are several miles out, possibly 200. Feeling good. Was with Harry,  Clarence  R, and Granville C, last night. Not on detail today. 

Wednesday, June 19

Slept well last night. Nothing exciting happening only the monotony of sailing. Has been raining all afternoon and the wind blowing very had. Have not been the least seasick even tho the boat has been rocking considerably. 

Thursday, June 20

Beautiful morning. Nothing exciting happened during the night. Weather beautiful all day and everything GC. (?) Am feeling fine. Been in in the army 7 weeks 2 days. 

Friday, June 21

Am thoroughly acquainted with slum guilliore (?)/ Now on duty to carry same for one week. Sea very rough. Today the longest day in the year. 

Saturday, June 22

Sea has been rather rough today with waves splashing on the deck. Feeling fine. Coming into danger zone tonight. Captain addressed us tonight to endeavor to ascertain who had been stealing canned beans, beef and peaches from the hold. 

Sunday, June 23

Weather very rough and disagreeable all day.

Monday, June 24

 Has been a very beautify day. The only exciting event happening was the cruiser firing a shot. Am feeling fine. 

Tuesday, June 25

Today sighted a submarine, the cruiser fired one shot, and one other boat one shot and another two as yet we have seen no other traces of it, but they are on the alert.

Wednesday, June 26

Voyage continued uneventful. 

Thursday, June 27

Sailed all day along the Irish coat accompanied by a convoy of six submarine chasers.

Friday, June 28

Lying in the harbor oat Liverpool, England. Anchored about 9:15. Left the boat about 1 o’clock and marched around the city. Greeted by two bands (one of kids and the other ours) and the Kenya Magistrate. Then we took a train over the London and Great ? Historic RR and reached ---------about ? o’clock. Marched to camp arriving about 2 o’clock. Ate a lunch of preserves (?) coffee, bread and butter and cheese and rested.

At home, after the war.

Saturday, June 29

About all I did today was to wash clothes, take a bath, and buy cigarettes, chocolate, etc. at the Canteen. Handling the English money was at first confusing. Slept this morning until 9 am, a rather unusual experience. 

Sunday, June 30

Day beautiful. Reveille at 5:45 am. Mess 8 o’clock. Muster 11:20 am. Rest of the morning loafing. Mess about 2 pm. Went to town about 3 pm and saw the Cathedral, second largest one in Europe, about 545 feet long. Built about 1000 years ago, supposed to have taken 400 years to build it. Most beautiful building I have ever seen. Burial place of several English kings, one grave supposed to have been buried in 1300. Also one of the early Puritan leaders was buried here and they Pilgrims thought if they should touch his tomb their sins would be forgiven. Had to build a fence around it to keep them away. The west window of the cathedral composed of fragments of a former glass ceiling of the building is exceptionally beautiful. Claimed to be the most perfect in existence. 

Monday, July 1

Left 10:45 am. Arrived about 11:30. Left at 7:00 pm. 

Wednesday, July 3

Leaving this afternoon at 3 arrived at Maurne and then on to Loheac.

My grandfather came home from France, married a beautiful girl called Tish, and had a daughter named Pattie, who lived for eight days in February and March of 1931. I plant flowers on her grave every Memorial Day. Seven years later, they had a little boy, who became my father. My grandfather traveled many places in the United States, but he never went back to Europe.

 Every time I hear something about World War I, I think about the man I never knew, who went to France, and came home again –  and all of the men who were over there with him, that never did come home. I’ll always go to the cemeteries, armed stories that make real people out of names and images, and with my flowers, I’ll remember.

A Garden Farewell

I went back to my first garden a few weeks ago, and over the span of a few hot, sweaty hours, finally said my goodbyes. The exertion of taming a landscape I had shaped and formed and had been absent from for three years kept any emotions at bay until long after the sun set that evening. In my new house, and new garden, I reflected on a roiling clamor of bittersweet thoughts. 

Gardening is in my blood – or at least, a very strong connection to the land. I come from a long line of farmers – and, also, a long line of folks who like to be their own boss. Despite a childhood on a farm, I always felt like I came late to gardening. My first foray was at 22, in my first apartment, when I realized the landlord would let me putter away in the small flower bed on my side of the building. For several years after that, I enthusiastically tackled small plots of land with divided plants from the farm, carving out my own small spot of peace wherever I moved, and then, as renters do, moving on again. 

Coming back to Kentucky, and buying my first house, I also bought a yard devoid of anything remotely considering landscaping. Overgrown yew bushes menaced the front porch and two scraggly trees leaned over the back porch. The one redeeming plant life was a lovely dogwood tree in the front yard. Over the next seven years (the taxus and two trees were felled by professionals less than a month after I moved in), the shaping of my yard provided me with a constant, and a space in which I could experiment and grow and learn. The challenges of life sometimes left me desolate during that time, but there were also many years of ebullient joy. 

I put in a raised bed, a border at the back of the yard, assisted with the building of a pergola, and even planted in the strip between the sidewalk and the street. I planted my first climbing rose, the very thorny New Dawn, as well as a climbing hydrangea. I embraced grapevines without fruit (Crimson Glory), clematis of assorted colors, and cross vine. A Japanese maple went into a new circular bed, and died…two butterfly bushes balanced another oval bed and thrived. A forsythia greeted spring loudly and beautifully. There were flowers everywhere. 

I love English gardens, and there was perhaps a bit of that in my garden. Hollyhocks, lots of bulbs, and even more inherited plants formed the foundation of the first few years. Chaotic joy was my main theme – and it was a forgiving space. If something didn’t work in a particular place, I dug it up, and tried it somewhere else. I edged my main border with rocks from an old house site on our farm, spending hours (and miles) digging them up and transporting them back to the city. 

There were a lot of parties in the summer, and lazing on the porch. Fireworks were set off, and I attempted to master the grill (that still hasn’t happened). I watched fireflies dance around until late in the night, and I found space for a hammock. Various found objects made their way into the garden and found new life as “garden art.” I carried my beloved first dog out into the garden on her bed when she could no longer move, and she lay in the sun beside me as I dug up lilies to plant on her grave. That was one of the saddest days I had, but the profusion of lilies that greet me whenever I go to the garden covering her final resting spot always make me think of my first gardening companion with a smile. 

 

It was a small lot, you see, just fine for two people and two dogs. Two porches made the small bungalow seem larger, but when people are involved, so is change. So I sold my house and garden, because with the knowledge I had at the time, it was what I needed to do. It wasn’t easy, and as my life changed rather violently after that, I missed my garden with a palpable physical force. For over a year, I not only lived with most of my furniture in storage, and without a garden of any kind. I helped my sister with her yard, and tended to my mother’s many flower beds, but it wasn’t the same. 

I’ve been in my new house for about a year and a half. The back yard is deeper than my old house, but it was a honeysuckle jungle. Once again, there wasn’t much existing landscaping, and there was a lot of deferred maintenance.  I used a chain saw for the first time, and realized that for many people, the natural world is just a backdrop. 

I started to wonder about my old garden, and how it was faring. Although I don’t live very far from it at all – maybe a mile? – I avoided driving by, because it hurt too much. Then I decided to stop and see if the new owners wanted some free labor, and in exchange, I could divide some of my perennials I hadn’t seen for a long time. This being said, I divided innumerable plants before I sold the house – but in the stress of moving and living life, there wasn’t enough time to let go. There wasn’t any time to say goodbye. 

I increased the green space of the backyard by digging up the driveway that extended to a garage no modern car could utilize. It was slow and tedious, and one of my friends made countless references to “Shawshank Redemption”, as I hacked away at the blacktop and carried 5-gallon buckets of gravel to the farm to fill in potholes in the farm roads. In addition to the lilies, I planted hundreds of my favorite bulbs – jonquils. (Known also as daffodils, or by the genus name narcissus. My paternal grandmother called them jonquils, and when I say the name, or see them bloom, I think of her.)

Altruistic intentions in hand (and slightly self-centered intentions as well), I went back to my garden. I weeded, I wacked, I dug and I restored order. It was wonderful to see, 10 years later after I began, that my original untutored, perhaps unsophisticated garden design had good bones. Despite the forsythia taking over the raised bed and rooting itself wherever it could (they benefit from judicious pruning, which it had not experienced since I left), and the rose taking down a section of the fence (New Dawn is very aggressive in addition to having dangerous thorns. It also isn’t all that fragrant. I’m a Zephirine Drouhin girl now), my garden looked lovely, albeit a bit neglected.

I returned to my new house, and new garden, with a car full of plants. In the three hours I spent tending to my old garden, I also said goodbye. It will always be my first garden, and I will always treasure the time I spent there – but I don’t long for it anymore. Better gardens, tempered by experience (and budget), await me. I’ve added a few more power tools to my arsenal, and have started making my own trellis. Maybe I’ll build an even better pergola this time. I look forward to dreaming about what I will plant, and spending hours in the sun and in the rain creating what I see in my mind – and waiting to see how it will bloom.